So…I’m kind of a cat lady. No, not one of those old hags with a hump, cobweb hair, a crochet addiction and a full mantle display of dusty kitten china plates, who smells of stale urine and hobbles around a mess of seventeen cats, only eventually to get the ASPCA called on her. I’ve still got a few years to go for that status, but I get cats.
Really, I’m down with most fuzzy creatures and enjoy their company, until they become needy, attention whores that need frequent care. Hence, why I enjoy an animal that is self-sustainable, self-entertained, mysterious, kind of weird, gives you love when it feels like it, needs only good food, fresh water and a clean toilet; a laid back, low maintenance animal that behaves…like me.
I have a cat. I found him as a tiny wad of black fluff with a broken tail and spooky eyes, one blue, one green, underneath a car in an AMC movie theatre parking lot four years ago. Tiny, malnourished and covered in fleas, I took him home and named him Boo. It was a week before Halloween; I thought the name suited him.
Flash forward to present day NY and his four year old fat-ass is sprawled across the foot of my bed while I’m typing and he is giving me a look of “what’s your problem?” This is a common look from him. Most days Boo is a strange, normal cat that does normal cat things like shed black fur all over my white clothes, stick his butt in peoples faces, claw my couch into ornate shreds, and make all my friends sick with wonderful allergens, but there are days when his oddities are so hilarious and human-like that I realize I couldn’t miss a day without him, like the day I heard Boo grunting as he pooped.
Now, I have heard and read many funny man stories about public bathrooms with raging man grunts coming from next stall and about men reading the newspaper while dropping the kids off at the pool, but reality for me is, I’m not a grunter and I was under the impression that most females, in general, aren’t. So leaving the ideas of men and their heave-ho poos to be urban legend, I have happily proceeded in my life grunt-free…never to believe my cat would shatter my blissful ignorance completely.
I have a cat. I found him as a tiny wad of black fluff with a broken tail and spooky eyes, one blue, one green, underneath a car in an AMC movie theatre parking lot four years ago. Tiny, malnourished and covered in fleas, I took him home and named him Boo. It was a week before Halloween; I thought the name suited him.
Flash forward to present day NY and his four year old fat-ass is sprawled across the foot of my bed while I’m typing and he is giving me a look of “what’s your problem?” This is a common look from him. Most days Boo is a strange, normal cat that does normal cat things like shed black fur all over my white clothes, stick his butt in peoples faces, claw my couch into ornate shreds, and make all my friends sick with wonderful allergens, but there are days when his oddities are so hilarious and human-like that I realize I couldn’t miss a day without him, like the day I heard Boo grunting as he pooped.
Now, I have heard and read many funny man stories about public bathrooms with raging man grunts coming from next stall and about men reading the newspaper while dropping the kids off at the pool, but reality for me is, I’m not a grunter and I was under the impression that most females, in general, aren’t. So leaving the ideas of men and their heave-ho poos to be urban legend, I have happily proceeded in my life grunt-free…never to believe my cat would shatter my blissful ignorance completely.
Whilst getting ready for work one day in my bathroom, doing girly things, putting on make-up,smelling nice…I heard a faint exhale and then a…”eeeeeeeeehhhhhhhehhhhhh
Now I know the man-grunt myth to be true not only for man, but also for his animal counterpart and since then, I line Boo’s box with newspaper and give him all the privacy he needs. So get down with your bad self Boo…you rock…you and your poo.
1st day off the streets
It's My BOO in a BOX!
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